


Close to Perfect

by stillicidiums (disjointedeloquence)



Category: United States of Tara
Genre: Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, histrionic personality disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6576658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disjointedeloquence/pseuds/stillicidiums
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s as close to perfect as you’ve ever felt - and despite the facade you put up, you rarely ever feel anywhere close to perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close to Perfect

“Sometimes I wonder if anyone besides me actually believes in romance,” says Marshall as you trail behind him into his room. “Or if the idea is just a big joke -” he sets the box down on the bed. “On everyone.”

You sit down on his bed as he continues.

“Real romance,” he says, “you know? S-someone you wanna…wake up next to. Or…fall asleep on. Or-”

“I know, Marshall,” you say, turning to look at your lap.

“I know you know!” Marshall says, louder. You turn to face him. “I just…I just…”

Your voice is cracking despite yourself. “ _Wonder_ if you’re ever gonna _have it_?” you ask, staring at him. The braver - or maybe dumber, more impulsive, more desperate - part of your brain is screaming,  _I want to give it to you. Please. Please. Let me._

He turns. You sigh, turning away from him again. You set your phone on the bed beside you.

 

“Okay, fine,” you say. “The other night, when I went to the park guy’s house, there wasn’t any wine, or eyelid kissing.”

You feel him staring at you in your periphery.

“I went in, and he asked me to please just wear my underwear…and…he started playing with his cock-”

“Stop!” he interrupts, suddenly yelling. You feel your guts twist inside of you. “I don’t wanna know!”

You can barely muster a whisper now. “Okay.” You turn and will the tears not to come.

Of course. He doesn’t care. No one cares. No one wants to know about the shit you do to feel wanted, to feel desired, to feel needed, to feel something at all. No one cares about your histrionic ass. You keep talking anyway. You don’t know if your mouth will let you have a choice.

“When I got home,” you say, the words flowing out of your mouth - much like the vomit into the toilet bowl every time you go home with some old bear or daddy from the park, it is relentless, it burns on its way up and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth - “my mom didn’t ask what I’d been doing.” You inhale sharply. “I didn’t even have to lie.”

You stare at the edge of his bed and it blurs into the carpet beneath it. You feel the bed shift. You feel your breath catch. You feel your heart hammer away in your chest, taunting you with all of the feelings you wish you didn’t have - all of the fear, and the shame, and the god-knows-what-else you work so hard to hide behind bright colors and flirtatious smirks and loudness and -

And then he’s kissing your eyelids: Your right eyelid, your left eyelid. As he pulls away your lips part and your neck strains to meet him. The air between you is empty. You look at him. He looks at your lips. You dart forward an inch. He fills in the gap. His lips are on yours. Soft, warm. He rests his hand on your thigh. Your shaky hands wrap around him tentatively. Your lips press back. Your breath is shallow, but so is his. You whimper against his lips.

 

It’s as close to perfect as you’ve ever felt - and despite the facade you put up, you rarely ever feel anywhere close to perfect.


End file.
